


Pagan

by synteis



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Coming Out, Getting Together, M/M, Medical Procedures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-29 05:33:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13920432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synteis/pseuds/synteis
Summary: The murder of an old friend turns up old secrets from Morse including the third reason for his old nickname, Pagan. Meanwhile, Max is just the pathologist trying to do his job and ignore his attraction to Morse.





	Pagan

**Author's Note:**

> Set between Rest and Arcadia.

Max was finishing breakfast when the call came through that morning. Happily, the address was in the city centre.

The body when he arrived was on the roof of Lonsdale’s college and by the end of his climb up increasingly flimsy sets of stairs, he was beginning to long for the flat of the countryside.

He opened the door to the roof and light flooded his eyes. Below his eyes stood all of Oxford, glittering in the morning sun, bright stone warmed, green copper and grey slate roofs shining. In the centre of it all lay a man in a pool of sunlight.

A body was certainly one way to spoil a beautiful view. Still, Max had a job to do. He nodded at the constable on duty and knelt to observe his patient, his knees cracking unhappily in the position after the long climb.

Male, dressed, on his back, no immediate signs of trauma. His eyes had been closed. Unusual. A mark of care, perhaps? He pulled out his thermometer, checking first air temperature then that of the man.

He was halfway through his examination when he was disturbed by the sound of footsteps. From the corner of his eye, he saw first Thursday then Jakes and finally Morse emerge. A nice surprise. He liked working with them even if their cases were seldom straightforward. Still, he gave no sign of having noticed their presence. It would only invite them to ask him questions.

Thursday and Jakes were carefully cataloguing the body. Morse, as usual, was some distance away, looking at everything else, arms clasped behind his back. In fact, he was somewhat caught between the door and the body. Ah yes, he didn’t like heights in addition to his necrophobia thus his hemming. Max would have to slide in a jab before he left.

“Gentlemen.” The quiet conservation died down.

“Doctor DeBryn,” Inspector Thursday replied.

Max stood with the help of his umbrella, his knees cracking, glad for the change in position. “Male in his late twenties, penetrating trauma from behind to the liver. Hepatic artery was severed with rapid exsanguination as the cause of death though with an eye to the stomachs of some of our constables, that event took place elsewhere.”

Jakes nodded, sucking hard on his cigarette, the other hand buried deep in his pants pocket, ruining the line of the fabric. “So he bled out first, then moved here.”

Morse stepped forward and his eyes swam before abruptly stepping back. Max stifled a smile. “Odd place to move a body, I would have thought, Lonsdale regularly brings up guests to see the view.” In spite of his vertigo, Morse’s reply was still his usual sharpness and speed.

Max had to stop himself shaking his head. Morse had less than no head for office politics with a gift for actively making things worse with his colleagues. Max couldn’t help wondering how the Signals Corps had taken it. Poorly he imagined.

“So the murderer wanted people to see the body. Attention seeking, wanting to ruin the college’s reputation, any of a thousand motives.” Jakes put out his cigarette, crushing it under his shoe before drawing another one of out his packet. The sharp jerky gestures as he patted it down left little need for guessing at his state of mind.

Not that Morse seemed to have noticed. Did he ever? For someone so analytical and quick he could be acutely oblivious. Max shivered when his eyes passed quickly over him in their survey of the crime scene.

“But then why kill the man somewhere else, leaving the–” Morse turned looking towards the door and Max leaned harder on his umbrella. They were like one of Morse’s opera sometimes.

“–The blood,” Morse continued, gesturing in the vague direction of Max’s patient, “Only to bring the victim’s body here? Surely it would be more effective at putting off donors if there was such a pool.” He was still but there was something about the way he vibrated in that stillness like a coiled spring. “What was time of death, doctor?”

The sudden focus of attention from the three men felt almost akin to whiplash it was so sudden. Max cleared his throat. “By my calculations, three to five hours ago. So dawn, thereabouts.”

“Then there would have been time to move it somewhere less showy while it was still dim, nevermind the hassle of bringing it up here just as the college was waking up. And if our murderer wanted to shock or surprise, surely you could just lure your victim up to the roof. There would have been enough time for our murderer to sneak out even with blood on their clothes.” He raised a finger for emphasis and paused before carrying on, “But no, that’s not what happened. Uniform says that the body was initially thought to have been sleeping it looked so peaceful. This scene was arranged to look this way.” At last he was silent, his arms returned to their habitual place behind his back though his clear blue eyes still flashed in the morning light, caught on the puzzle, searching the scene.

“Then who was it arranged for? Some painter?” was Jakes’ contribution. This time Max did sigh and knelt once more to pack up his things. The argument continued in the background but he paid it no mind. He had seen this show far too many times and his patients needed his attention far more than this trio, Morse’s blue eyes notwithstanding.

Thursday hummed and the two men abruptly stopped. Max felt it himself but as Home Office pathologist and indeed a matter of principle, he did not allow it to get to him. Instead, Max studied the man’s face one more time before he gave the signal for his body to be transported back to the hospital. He’d been caught somewhere between shock and a smile in death. Not unhandsome. His clothes were spotless but slightly off-kilter. A houndstooth jacket. The kind of man who liked to stand out a little.

“Any evidence for or against that, doctor?” The crisp words of an army man, as though anyone could have looked at him and thought otherwise.

“Somewhere out there is a pool of blood as large as the Mediterranean but it certainly isn’t on this roof.” The men all grimaced to differing extents and Max stood from his position on the roof, straightening out his trousers and gesturing at his men to collect the body. “His clothing is spotless but off-kilter. Dressed after death I should imagine. As for motivation, that’s your department. You’ll have my report this afternoon, gentlemen. Morse, shall we say two for our date?”

No response. “Morse?” He turned to look at the man who for once seemed to only have eyes for the corpse as he was put on the stretcher.

Even that provoked no answer and at last Thursday shook the man who startled.

“Ah, uh, yes.” Morse rubbed his hand through the back of his hair before crossing both in front of his body. His nervous tick. “The victim is Dr. Daniel Ross. Greats Don with Lonsdale. I was up with him.”

Ah indeed.

Poor Morse. He looked strangely fragile with his shoulders hunched up around his ears like a child. Or perhaps it was his usual fortitude that was strange. Morse had always had a slightness, a boniness. Easy to see how in another man that would have translated into vulnerability. Yet in Morse, it had always been a sharp armour. Until now.

Careless of the commotion below, the sun rose higher and higher in the sky. Sweat was beginning to gather under the nape of Max’s neck yet he was powerless to move. Even Jakes seemed to have been frozen in the act of preparing his cigarette.

“Worst part of the job seeing people you know, lad,” said Inspector Thursday in his gruff voice and the roof started moving again, the body covered and taken down the stairs, no one wanting to be caught staring at Morse. He wasn’t the type to appreciate the sympathy. Certainly, when his father had died he’d seemed to have interpreted their condolences as pity. Max turned away, giving them both some privacy.

Max’s preferences for Morse were as a sparring partner and companion, that active but refined mind, so unusual in his line of work. The lack of refinement was decidedly the worst part about Max’s own line which made Morse’s visits to his morgue a particular joy.

Even so, there had been something about Morse at that moment– “I’ll see you after lunch then, Morse.”

Morse nodded, even sharper than normal as though compensating for that instant of vulnerability.

Max turned to follow his body. Behind him, Thursday was beginning to question Morse about Max’s patient. To the left stood Jakes, sans cigarette. He was looking at the three of them with something in his eyes that Max didn’t want to think about.

Coppers.

Max should have gone with orthopaedics.

—|—

Several false ends, twists and emotional lows the type of which Morse seemed to unerringly attract and the case was reportedly over though no one would have guessed from the state of Morse himself.

“Case solved it would seem and somehow you need stitches again. You end up on my autopsy tables more frequently than the corpses do.” Max did his best to look strict not that it would have any impact on Morse in his experience. The man was immune to scoldings. He sighed. “‘If history repeats itself, and the unexpected always happens, how incapable Man must be of learning from experience.’”

That got something like a smile from Morse and Max fetched two glasses of whiskey.

“To your health, Morse,” Max said as they cheered the glasses.

Morse gulped his down in such short order that Max put his own out of reach of the man.

“The upside of my profession was supposed to be not having to deal with living patients anymore. Not to mention that there is both a Casualty department and a police surgeon. ” Headless of his own words, Max pulled Morse’s cheap shirt carefully open. “I don’t suppose this is a fresh shirt?”

Morse tugged on his ear.

“As I suspected. I’ll do my best to remove all the strands of fabric from the wound but there may be some I miss. Please do keep an eye on this one for infection. I’ll give you a shot of penicillin but that’s no substitute for rest and care. At least you managed to solve this case before getting stabbed. Hopefully, this will encourage you not to tear my best stitch work.” Max could feel himself over-articulating. He took a breath. Worrying about Morse was a fool’s errand. Unfortunately, it seemed that he was a certified fool.

Morse let out a vague mumble in response and Max resisted the urge for a more scathing remark.

“Now lie back and relax as best you can. I don’t want the stitches to pull later on. Any requests for the record?”

“Madame Butterfly, doctor, if you could.” Of course, that would get an answer from the man. Max shook his head.

Still, he selected the record from the rack. A gift from Morse as it happened. There was a faint crackle as the machine started and then the room was filled with music.

Max carefully clipped back his sleeves and washed his hand before turning on his patient, tweezers, needle and suture thread in hand. He turned on his spotlight and directed it at the wound

Morse hissed as Max pulled away the shirt from the injury. The wound was much as Max had imagined. He looked up and saw that Morse’s head was as far from the wound as humanly possible, his eyes closed. Max considered drawing his attention to it in an effort to have this happen with less frequency but decided against. He’d had a long day. And besides that, none of Max’s previous efforts had prevented Morse from returning to his slab in need of repair. There was little point wasting his breath.

Gloves on, Max took some gauze in the broad-nosed tweezers and wet it before pressing it gently against the wound. The body beneath him tensed. “Breathe, Morse.”

With the blood cleared away, the most painful part could begin. He leaned more forward still, being sure not the get in the way of the light, feeling his back hunch. Slowly, he removed the threads from the shirt which had been caught in the wound by the knife as well as any other debris, cleaning the wood with fresh gauze as needed to keep up visibility. At last, it was time to stitch and dress the wound. By the time Max had finished, it was almost time to turn the record.

“All done, Morse,” Max said when Morse showed no signs of getting up.

Morse said nothing and Max sighed, cleaning up and at last getting his sip of whiskey. The aria finished in due time and Max turned off the record player. He should have been used to it by now. It was after all the reason he played the records when he needed to patch up Morse. Morse lost himself in the music to an incredible extent. It was the only way to get him relaxed that didn’t involve pouring enough drink down his throat until he passed out as far as Max could tell.

“You autopsy room really does rival some of the best concert halls for its acoustics, Doctor DeBryn.”

“So you’ve said,” Max replied as he cleaned his tools. Sometimes he wondered why he counted this man amongst his friends.

Morse sat up, wincing as the gesture pulled on his fresh stitches. Max raised both eyebrows. Well if he would keep doing silly things he would have to deal with the consequences. Half an eye on his tools and half an eye on Morse, Max watched as he rebuttoned the torn and bloody shirt. Unlike the other men he never seemed to keep a fresh change in his locker even though he was far more prone to such injuries than most of them.

Max dried his hands, anticipating Morse’s next move and handed him his jacket, helping him into the arms. Even with his help, Morse still grimaced as the gesture pulled his fresh stitches. Jacket on, Morse buttoned it. To the unobservant, as so many were, it would appear that nothing whatsoever was the matter.

“Your help is appreciated, doctor.” Morse rocked back on his heels.

Max sighed. This man. “You are welcome, Morse. I just wish you’d need my help less often.”

Max turned, ready to busy himself in the last of his work.

“And before when we were discussing the case.”

Max turned back to face Morse who seemed to have frozen in the act of leaving Max’s morgue, the file he’d been looking at still in hand.

“Ah yes, your sudden disappearance from my autopsy room.” Max looked back at the file. That blood work for the body from County. High cholesterol but little else. Nothing suspicious then. His eyes flicked back to Morse. “I take it whatever idea I sparked was useful?”

Morse hummed, hands in his pockets. “It was what you’d said about the position of the stabbing. ‘Like a lover’s embrace.’”

Max nodded, one small mystery solved and returned to the perusal of his paperwork. “A particularly cruel way to murder someone,” he offered.

“Yes, he was. Cruel, that is.”

“Ah.” There was silence in the room at that disclosure. Max had stopped reading his paperwork though he did not look up. “His lover, then?” He forced the words to sound casual, like every other discussion they’d had in here.

“Yes, that’s why he put him on the roof of Lonsdale. It was Ross’s favourite spot in all of Oxford. He’d loved to view since he was an undergraduate. Used to take people up there...” Max looked up minutely. Morse was staring off into the middle distance. He looked as though a pink elephant could have appeared and he’d have taken no notice.

“Dinner and drinks at mine, Morse, after you drive Inspector Thursday home?” Max was surprised to hear the words come out of his mouth. They’d never gone out to anywhere but the pub before.

Morse made no response and Max was certain he was going to refuse. For someone whose offer had been unconscious, the idea was surprisingly disappointing.

“Alright.”

Max looked up, doing his best not to show his shock on his face. He wasn’t normally the type to get caught up in emotions, not like Morse. So it was very casually that he said, “Seven o’clock then?”

Morse nodded. “I’ll see you then.”

Morse’s footsteps walked away and at last Max permitted himself to follow the line of his back out the door and down the hallway.

–|–

Morse was late coming by, not unusual and Max spent thirty minutes wondering if he would skip on their plans. It would hardly be the last time although having just solved a case, the odds were more in favour of being late than having forgotten. Luckily the stew which had been prepared would only get better with the time so he made up a fire and sat down to read some of his favourite Houseman.

The knock on his door sparked deeper relief in him than he would have liked to admit.

He walked down and opened the door. “Morse.”

The man in question was wearing his macintosh, hands in his pockets. He inclined his head. “Doctor.”

Max stood aside. “Come in, come in. And call me DeBryn, please, Morse. We’re off the clock after all.”

Morse brushed by him on his way in and Max looked away, his hair rising on his arms. He gulped then took firm control of himself. “Can I take your coat, Morse?”

“Thank you, that’s very kind,” said Morse as he undressed.

Max resolutely did not react when Morse handed over his kitchen, busying himself instead in the act of hanging it away. “Just this way to the kitchen, then,” he said, gesturing with his head in the general direction. “Dinner will be shortly. Beef stew suit you?”

Morse sat when directed to do so although perching might have been a better term. “I’m not picky I assure you, DeBryn.”

Max opened the pot to check on it and the smell bubbled up, filling the room. Simply marvellous. “In my experience, DCs seldom are especially when they’re confirmed bachelors like yourself, Morse.” He gave it a stir and then closed the lid once more, moving some plates into the heated oven.

“You’re not wrong.” He fidgeted some. “Are you sure I can’t help serve?”

Max wondered if it was energy or boredom. When they met up at the pub there was usually either a case on, a crossword in front of Morse or a pint of bitters in his hands or all three. Max guessed it was boredom.

“You’re fine where you are. We’re just waiting for those plates to heat up. I didn’t want to heat them until you arrived. Nothing worse than good, hot food on cold plates especially when there’s a chill in the air.” He handed Morse a glass of water.

Morse eyed it dubiously.

“Don’t give me that look, I know it’s not your preferred liquid but you’ve lost blood. We’ll have wine soon enough.” Max took his own sip settling back into the chair and watched until Morse took a sip.

“You knew the man while you were up, then?” Max asked, eying the oven and licking his lips slightly.

Morse looked away, hands clasped in his lap. “We were close, once, I suppose. In later years I moved on to another circle. And then I left and,” he shrugged.

“I suppose we all have people like that from our university years. Especially those of us who read at Oxford. Like living in a city of ghosts.” Now it was Max’s turn to lose focus, lost in his own mind’s eye. “What is it Wilde said? ‘The only thing one never regrets are one’s mistakes.’”

“Maybe.” Morse’s voice was sharp and Max took the reprimand as it had been intended and stood, shaking off old memories and pulling out the plates from the oven. Toasty.

“Dinner’s served.”

“I didn’t know you could cook, DeBryn,” said Morse as they made their way to the small dining room where Max had already set the table.

“I can’t. But Home Office pathologists do make a little more than DCs so I can afford to have a housekeeper who leaves dinner for me to heat up. A good thing too because I’ve always been fond of my food as I’m sure you can see.” Max set his plate down and patted his gut gently. There were those who were ashamed of such vices but in their field, Max faced constant reminders about the importance of living life to the fullest. He enjoyed food too much to sacrifice it for a finer figure.

He eyed Morse out of the corner of his eye. Not that he complained about its results in others. Morse’s figure, of course, was more down to neglect than anything else. “Can I offer you some wine with dinner? I have a Burgundy we could share,” He asked from the sideboard.

“That’s very generous.” Morse had folded himself into his chair. He looked more like a bird than a man.

“Well, I did promise dinner and drinks.” Max poured them both full glasses. They had earned it.

They talked of not much at all, Morse complimenting the stew and the wine as well as the bread which his housekeeper had left, Max trading in various gossip which he’d heard. Morse had little patience for gossip however so it turned instead to several recent concerts and seminars one or both of them had attended. Morse was a snob, there was little question of that, but so was Max and it was an altogether pleasant dinner. Max seldom had company for dinner and Morse certainly qualified as company. When they finished, Max found himself thinking they should do it again.

“The dinner was very good,” said Morse. Some colour had returned to his cheeks. Max wondered when he’d last had a hot meal and then shied away from the implication.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it. I’ll pass your compliments on to my housekeeper.” Max leaned back, enjoying the warmth and fullness of his stomach. “And thank you for your company, the food wouldn’t have been half as good without it. I don’t suppose I can tempt you with a tuple in the sitting room?”

Morse nodded.

“Just through there, then,” said Max. “I’ll join you in a moment.”

Max cleared the plates and slipped them into the soapy water he had waiting. When he returned to Morse, the man in question was contemplating his record collection in his shirtsleeves, having folded his jacket over a chair.

“Is it up to your standards then, Morse?”

“Your proportion of Handel is too large,” he said as he turned his head to better read the titles. “Otherwise it’s acceptable.”

“From you, that is a true compliment. What is considered an acceptable proportion of Handel then?” Max turned to his shelf of alcohol.

“Oh, no more than nought point one percent. Yours is at least one percent,” his voice was distracted but Max didn’t take it personally.

“I see. How does French Brandy sound? In honour of your first time under my needle.”

Morse scowled for a second before replying, “I suppose it had better be your best then,” with a sparkle in his eyes.

“Very well, very well,” Max complained good-naturedly as he reached deep into the shelf for the decanter in question. Decanter in hand, he added two glasses to his haul and walked over to the two chairs in the centre of the room, depositing the glasses and the decanter on the side table. “You’re welcome to pick whichever record suits your fancy, Morse.”

“Oh?” Morse turned to confirm with Max. “Cheers.”

Max settled himself in his favourite chair, glad to have had the forethought to have lit the fire and poured them each a generous glass before stoppering the bottle. As if on cue, the record player starter. Max listened for a moment before venturing, “Tosca? Have we a fondness for Puccini today, Morse?”

“It seemed appropriate,” was all Morse said before sitting down himself and taking the brandy in hand. He swirled the glass and look at it through the fire before taking a slow sip. “I think you lied last time, doctor, for this is surely your best brandy.”

“If I left my best brandy at work, Morse, I would soon find that I didn’t have any to give to injury prone DCs.”

Their eyes met briefly and Max experienced a lightness in his limbs even after they each returned to their own solitary contemplations.

A comfortable silence ensued between them as the record player sang on, punctuated only by the occasional crack of the fire.

The sound of the record ending felt almost as though a spell had been broken and Morse came to his feet before Max had barely had a chance to consider standing up.

As Morse walked over, Max said with a smile, “I always thought that being called ‘Pagan’ simply on account of the one name was rather weak for the Oxford set. ‘With friends like that.’”

Morse froze and so did Max. Morse was normally so quick to banter, he hadn’t thought that his comment would cut to the quick.

Unless of course, it wasn't a tease but a truth.

Morse started moving again as though he had never stopped in the first place and soon he was at the record player. “‘The truth is rarely pure and never simple.’”

Max gave no indication he had noticed the pause. “Or perhaps, ‘‘Questions are never indiscreet. Answers sometimes are’?”

Morse changed the record and turned to face him, a sharp light in his eyes and an expression which turned out Max’s insides out like Max himself did with his patients. It was an unexpectedly pleasant feeling. “The right question can recall all manner of indiscretions, doctor.”

For a time, only the record player spoke and Max said nothing of his own indiscretions and Morse none of his. Still, Max found he did not fear what Morse might have surmised from his own questions. When Max finished his glass of brandy and saw that Morse had long since done the same, it was easy enough to pour them both a second glass out of the stoppered cut crystal.

As the Earth spun and the sun descended further below the horizon, the light in Max’s flat grew dimmer and dimmer. Max gave in to the strangeness of the day, pouring glass after glass of his best brandy for Morse. His own glass he refilled scarcely fewer times. It felt like a night back in undergraduate for all its silence. They might as well have been discussing the nature of love and knowledge and science as listening to Tosca.

The light of the fire cast Morse’s bony face in hard relief, catching in his eyes as though it had found in them an old friend. His hair which normally served to soften his jagged edges into something veering on Romantic seemed instead like a background of hellfire.

Act One ended but Morse made no move to rise. The crackle of the finished record and of the fire were the only sounds. But Morse wasn’t asleep. He looked instead intent on something but not so intent that he would have missed the record ending. Max let it run.

“Why did you ask me here tonight, doctor?” Morse asked at last.

“I owed you a favour. The Stowe House case. You caught him.” And that tonight Max had thought that Morse might need a friend.

Morse huddled in closer to his chair. “I suppose I did.”

The scratching of the record player continued. Max had just decided that he would get up if it went on a second longer when Morse interrupted him.

“Why do you think he took Daniel up there, DeBryn? All laid out like that?” The words came slowly and softly and for a moment it seemed almost like he was hearing Morse’s thoughts and not his voice. The change of subject to something yet more personal.

The oddity of the night struct Max all of a sudden. It felt as though the whole night, perhaps even the whole day could have all been a dream. But even if this was a dream, he couldn’t leave Morse without an answer to a question like that.

“More cruelty? Remorse?” Max kept his voice soft and steady, hoping he sounded kind but not pitying. Morse didn’t hold with pity. “I’m afraid I leave all that to your lot, Morse.”

Morse took a very large sip of his brandy and Max looked away, not wanting to intrude. Morse was such a private man.

The record player had stopped in the background. Automatic. The silence seemed oppressive suddenly.

“They found out that I’d written ‘High Church Atheist’ under religious affiliation on my application,” Morse said at last, an answer to a question Max had asked so long ago he almost startled, brain having to shift back gears.

“Oh?” Max said, nodding his head as though this trail of thought made complete sense.

“Like many young men of that age, I thought myself very funny,” A glimmer of a smile lightened the tightness around Morse’s eyes. He coughed. “As of course did my acquaintances at Oxford when they gave me that nickname.”

Max gave an affirmative hum, wanting to encourage but not to interfere.

“But yes, that was the other reason. Three meanings in one.” Morse was wringing his hands though once he noticed he stopped and took another gulp of his brandy.

Max followed suit. What was there to say to such an admission? Had anyone at the station ever heard Morse speak with so much candour? He was normally so deeply private. But he had had a trying day so was it truly surprising that he was not himself? It was why Max had invited him back after all.

“I take it you are an Alexander and not a Hadrian then?”

It took a moment for Max to register that the voice asking the question had been his. He rubbed gently on the arm of the chair with his thumb. It seemed that Morse wasn’t the only one who’d be struck by candour tonight on account of the brandy.

Or perhaps it was courage. For all that Oxford had its share like the late Daniel Ross, they mostly belonged to the gown and not the town. Certainly not to Oxford City Police.

For a time, Morse said nothing. Only his back faced Max, the man himself was staring entirely into the fire.

Had he gone too far? Whatever else Max might feel, he valued their friendship more. He didn’t want it ruined.

“Speaking to my history as a Greats’ man, DeBryn?” Not the worst thing he could have said but one which did little to resolve the butterflies in his own stomach.

“They are your prefered source for quotations I’ve noticed. I thought it topical.” No indication that their discussion was about anything more serious than their usual exchanges.

“And you?” The mirror of his own question.

Now Max who could not face him. He studied his glass instead as he replied. “I am decidedly a confirmed bachelor, to my mother’s sorrow.” More uncommon courage for all that it was a rote answer trotted out to friends, family, colleagues.

“I suppose we might match then.” The sound of Act Two spilt out as Morse changed the record.

Max breathed out a sigh of a relief, the room abruptly coming into focus once more. He took a slow sip, feeling the warmth of the fire, the softness of his housecoat, the good company.

“I suppose we might.”

But neither made a move, Max contemplating his glass and Morse the fire.

Max allowed himself to appreciate Morse’s beauty on a different level than he had before when he had forced himself to abstract. The drape of the cheap white shirt over prominences of bone and the occasional muscle.

He imagined counting his every vertebrate. Perhaps with his hands perhaps with his mouth. He felt himself stirring but he was wearing his housecoat and so gave it no concern. Waking to see this lithe fey creature from whom words spat out in endless sentences of sharp, jagged proclamations. Discussions over breakfast about the nature of art, small smiles when they had their “dates” in the autopsy room before getting to work, a companion for concerts in the evening–

He forced the train of thought to end, blushing.

It was one thing to admire Morse, his beauty, his intellect, his stubbornness, his goodness, and quite another to have these domestic thoughts about him when all he knew, hidden in references and quotations, was that he occasionally liked men as well as women.

That Daniel Ross had once likely been his lover of some description.

It was just that Max was lonely. His days were filled with bodies, the occasional sparkle of a visit from Morse or a case being solved on his findings. Relaxation, sitting with a book at home with some claret, good food, fly fishing in the lake district, concerts, lectures, lunch at the club some days and yet– He felt very tired all of a sudden.

“Is it the nature of mankind to be solitary do you think, DeBryn?” It seemed Act Two had already ended. Morse must have flipped the record without him noticing. Morse’s voice was such an echo to his thoughts that for a moment he thought that he had spoken aloud. But he hadn't. Just Morse and his odd, sometimes shockingly correct leaps. He was standing by the record player once more, ready to change it. Waiting for this conversation to finish, perhaps.

Max coughed, trying to give himself enough time to collect his thoughts. “Research tells us that humans, like our cousins the apes, are fundamentally social creatures. A recent study out of Stanford last year found that holding infants substantially changed their behaviour and alertness. It is an active field of study. Certainly, children who are not touched have been shown to have difficulties.”

For a moment he wanted to ask, ‘Are you lonely, Morse? I am,’ but that was too much candour even for the amount they had drunk. Instead, he added, “‘Whoever is delighted in solitude is either a wild beast or a god.’”

“Aristotle.” Morse walked back to his chair. There was a smile on his lips, delicate but crooked. “And what of, ‘Loneliness is the poverty of the self; solitude is the richness of the self’?”

“I suppose it asks the question whether one is solitary or lonely, then.”

“I suppose it does.” Something like tension let itself out of Morse’s back.

Max resettled himself and poured them each another glass, no pressing the subject and relieved that Morse had chosen not to as well. A conversation too close to reality for both of them. On the record player Act Three began and Morse returned to his chair.

The record player crackled and Max startled awake. It seemed he had fallen asleep. The opera was over and without it, Morse had little reason to stay. Max checked his pocket watch. Late. Very late. “It seems our night has stretched rather later than we’d planned.”

Morse stood quickly, rubbing the back of his head with his hand. “I can walk back.”

Max looked at him. “I have a guest bedroom, you can stay the night. We’ve both drunk far too much for me to drive you or for you to walk home. The only remaining option is a taxi. Taxis this late at night are seldom pleasant in my experience.”

Morse didn’t reply which was as much of an agreement from him as Max thought he’d get.

Max stood, stretching more like a turtle than a cat. He’d have to air the room a little. He didn’t have many guests. He glimpsed his decanter on the side table. Almost empty.

“Shall we split the rest of the brandy, Morse?”

No response.

That was unusual.

“‘The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.’” The words were whispered so softly, Max was certain he had imagined them. He turned all the same only to find Morse close enough to touch, his cheeks flushed and his eyes resting firmly on Max.

He shivered, feeling himself respond to Morse’s very nearness before looking away, certain he’d misheard. “Morse?”

“Ross was always very fond of Wilde.” Morse took another step forward so that he was standing barely a distance from Max. “Especially, ‘Wickedness is a phrase invented by good people to account for the curious attractiveness of others.’”

Morse’s hand cupped his face as his arm came to hold Max’s waist. Max's heart beat so loud in his ears that he felt certain Morse could feel it too. His face was warm and Morse's hand so cool. How long had it been since he had been touched like this? With this kind of slowness and purpose. University days, surely. Paul.

“DeBryn?” Morse whispered in the space between their bodies.

He realized he had been standing there for longer than he had intended, caught in the sensations of touch and warmth and nearness. So much harder to resist than simple desire.

“Call me Max,” and then he closed the distance.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed. I really appreciate comments of any kind including crit. 
> 
> The idea of Morse being called Pagan because in addition to the single name and religious affiliation he liked men and women snuck into my head one day and just wouldn't leave. So what could I do but write it down? I've really come to really appreciate the relationship between Max and Morse, romantic/sexual or not. Very excited to contribute to this fandom for the first time.
> 
> This work has numerous quotes among them several from Wilde, one from Aristotle, one from Shaw and one from May Sarton.


End file.
